


What happens in Vegas...

by arienai



Category: Call of Duty
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:59:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arienai/pseuds/arienai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rorke's interrogation of the Walker family goes very, very differently.</p><p>(Originally written for the Call of Duty: Ghosts kink meme, which definitely needs more love. Check it out here: http://ghostskinkmeme.livejournal.com/)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rorke

"Well I guess if you want something right, do it yourself," I said, not at all displeased by the prospect.

They'd been at the other two for almost an hour. Beating them. Threatening to kill one or the other.

No imagination. That would take days to work on your average ground-pounding grunt with even the basics of SERE training. Even one too stupid to realize that if they really killed one of them, the other would have no reason left to talk. It was never going to work on a Ghost. Or what passed for one, these days.

Elias looked like hell, though - that was good to see. Two kids and a tired old man. Almost like putting them out of their misery.

The younger one stirred. What was his name again? He didn't look a damned thing like his old man. I used to give him shit for that, when he'd bring pictures of the brats in to work, put them on his desk next to casualty lists and field reports like he was a damned school teacher or a dentist. Maybe he was the milk man's. Maybe his old lady was tired of not getting fucked enough because his cock was all used up at work.

"Ah, you're awake. Good." I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back to get a good look at him. Nope. Not a damned thing. Disappointing. "Nice to have the family back together, isn't it?"

"We're just missing our quiet friend..." The Elias I used to know - the clear-eyed, fearless, sharp-shooting lieutenant who pulled through the night they'd all stepped willingly into the grave and come out the other side invincible - wouldn't have missed the threat in that last gesture. But that Elias has been dead and gone a long time, now. A frail has-been sits in his place, full of futile resistance. Afraid. "Where's Keegan?"

"You know I'm not telling you a damn thing..." he lied, though he didn't know it yet.

"No? Well let's see if I can change your mind."

Oh, the oldest one looked plenty like him. Same bright-eyed boy scout. Even a little pretty, for their line of work, like he used to be. But that wasn't how this worked. A father wants to protect his sons. An older brother his baby brother.Elias might break if I took the older one, but this doubled their chances one of them would talk. What were they thinking, going after the old man first? As much as I wanted to smash his face in myself, it could wait. After this they had all the time in the world. Hell, this might even be better. 

"No!"

Sure enough, they both cried out the second I unholstered my sidearm and leveled it at his head, cocking it, pulling my finger off the trigger at the last second.

"Son of a bitch! I'm going to kill you!" The older one spat.

"Easy, junior. I ain't even started with you yet." Maybe I would, though. Later.

I could sense Elias' unease start to turn to dread - why didn't I shoot? He had two sons; that made one of them expendable if I wanted to play it that way. Make threats. But we didn't have all goddamned day.No, this would be quicker. This is why I had them take Merrick to another room. This had to be intimate. Personal. No complications. Might as well get this started. Couldn't say I wasn't looking forward to it.

"Did your old man ever tell you about us?" Let him think for half a second, one comfortable, blissful second that I wasn't going to go this route, as I squeezed the younger one's shoulder. Let him think I was talking about South America. 

"Damnit Rorke," Elias growled. "This is between... you..." He trailed off as I stroked the younger one's cheek with my thumb - hm, hasn't shaved in a few days - and slipped fingers down past his collar into his shirt. 

"Haha! You're damned right it is. At least, it was. I guess they were bound to find out someday." I could feel him recoil, but there was nowhere to go. Poor kid. Paying for his old man's sins. The brother was too quiet, though. Too stupid to get it, maybe. I leaned over and gave his thigh a squeeze for good measure, high enough to feel his cock through his BDU until he squirmed away. Would have squirmed right out of the chair if I hadn't been holding him down.

"Dad...?" Said the older one, quizzically. Now he gets it.

"Logan..." Elias' voice was tight enough to hang a man. Ah, right, Logan. And the older one went by Hesh. Now I remember. "Look at me. I--"

"Oh, don't worry. It was before he met your mother." I yanked Logan back into place, then gave him a hard shake. Don't push your luck, kid. I could snap your neck and go fuck your brother. "Just kidding," I added wryly. "No it wasn't." 

Ah, that was the look I was going for: horror, and helplessness. It looks good on you, Elias. I wonder if I looked like that when I realized you were going to leave me to die. Don't worry, though - he'll look even worse by the time I'm done with him. Hesh, though, he just looked disbelieving. They taught you this could happen, in SERE training. Most guys didn't really believe it. But these kids, they enlisted after the war started. When there was no time to send operators to fancy courses with PhD psychologists for six months to teach them how to resist interrogation. After all, the Feds were just going to put a bullet in their heads. No, they were battlefield tested, and they knew all about killing. Nothing about this.

But, believe it or not, this was going to happen.

"Oh, me and your dad, we go way back." I unbuckled his belt and tugged it off - it would come in handy if he started to kick - and unbuttoned his pants. Nice and slow. Let them watch it. Give them all the time in the world to let it sink in. All the time in the world to speak up. "But you knew that. But, did you know, I used to fuck him? And he used to _love_ it."

"You're full of shit." Hesh hissed. "He's lying... dad...?"

Elias may as well have been carved from stone. Oh, that's a sculpture I'd like to have up on my wall: the pure, seething hatred of Elias Walker. "Look at me, son..."

"That's right, you look at him." I dragged his pants down to his knees, his underwear with it. Grabbed a handful of bare ass. "He could stop this any time he wanted. Funny thing, though, about your old man - lets his men die to save his own ass."

Still not talking, huh. The kid had nice legs, I had to admit. Nice cock too, probably; or it would be if it wasn't shriveled up with fear and revulsion. I'd see if I could change that. "You know what else he used to love?" I reached further down into his shirt and squeezed one of the kid's nipples. He flinched; then I rubbed it in nice, and slow. Felt him relax, unconsciously. Heard his breath hitch. 

Just like you used to, Elias. You used to put up a fight, but you always gave in. You wanted it. Wanted me. I could reach into your webbing to "check your gear", stroke you nice and slow, before we went on an op and by the end of it you'd be outside my tent begging for it. I used to find it endearing. Now I see it for what it is: pathetic. Weak-willed. Not enough fight in you to save one of your men. 

Even your son's fighting harder than that. Squeezing his eyes shut and trying to twist away. "That's it," I breathed right next to his ear, taking my time. Getting both of his nipples nice and hard, watching his cock twitch and stiffen and grow in response. "Feels good, doesn't it? Just like your old man." One soft, unwilling groan got the blood rushing down to mine, too. Just like old times.

"Leave my boys out of this." Elias tried to sound forceful; he was pleading.

"Where's Keegan?" I asked, not expecting an answer. Not really minding the silence, either. The kid was breathing hard, now; struggling against his own arousal. Just like you used to. His skin was nice and taught all the way down his lean chest and hard abs, slicked with cold sweat. Just like yours used to be. Oh, I was going to enjoy this.

"Don't..." He murmured, barely audible. 

This was a surprise. I didn't expect the kid to break first. Too bad, really. It would have felt to so much better to see it coming from Elias. "No?" Lips brushing his ear. "What else have you got for me?

He chewed his lip hard, and said: "I'll suck you off."

I had to laugh. That's all he thought this was about? Lust? Elias, are your kids stupid? "You hear that Elias? Your son just offered me a blow job. Apple sure doesn't fall far from the tree in this family."

The kid's face flushed - that wasn't something he wanted his daddy and his big brother to hear. It was fucking adorable, really. "Alright. If you want it that bad..."

I grabbed his jaw and shoved my sidearm into his mouth so far he gagged on it, blood seeping from broken gums. "Okay. This is how it's going to work. Your little boy is going to suck me off, Elias, and when I _get_ off, I will blow his brains out the back of his skull. Then I'll do the same to your other boy. Then you. And, fuck, well, if you don't tell me where Keegan is then at least I'll have gotten my dick sucked more than it has been in a while."

"No! Logan! I'll kill you you son of a bitch!" Hesh writhed in his seat, terrified; Elias just looked defeated. He knew I'd do it.

At least the kid still looked defiant. No, definitely nothing like his old man. That got me even harder; a thin trickle of spit running down the side of mouth as he struggled to swallow, half-naked with a dripping cock and he was _still_ the only one with the balls to look me in the eye. Good. 

I unzipped my fly and tugged my cock out - no need to bother with the rest - dragging the gun to the side to make room, but I didn't take it out. If he was thinking of using this as ploy to bite me, that was just too damned bad. "Lots of tongue now, you hear?" And guided the tip into that warm, wet, waiting open mouth. Little by little. Ease it down his throat up to the shaft. Ah, that felt--

"He's in Colorado. NORAD." I almost didn't hear Elias' quiet admission over the sudden, pounding rush of blood; the kid swallowed unconsciously, struggling to breathe, not knowing now fucking incredible that felt, constricting all around my throbbing head. 

"...Is that so....?" This was it. This was the moment I was waiting for. It took them months to break me. Years, maybe. Ages had passed when they finally dragged me out of that pit. I remember the seasons changing. Elias, you pathetic piece of shit, it took you five goddamned minutes. "Okay, Elias. I guess that's it then." I started to pull the gun out, gingerly, and saw the old man's shoulders sag while Hesh sat in open-mouthed disbelief.

"Just kidding." I chuckled, then drove it back in; the kid's chest heaved with the need to vomit; his throat milked my cock more sweetly than any lover I've ever had. I groaned openly with pleasure. "It's too late for this one. You call him in, and I won't make you watch me do the same to the other one."

A shudder ran through the kid's body - I didn't blame him. What a way to go. Still felt incredible, though. I grabbed his hair and started fucking his mouth. Take my time, for the old man's sake. 

"I'm gonna' kill you! Mother fucker!" The older one howled, spitting curses and trying his damnest to break free. But he couldn't struggle forever. I wondered what that was like, watching your little brother suck another man off; the slight bulging of his cheeks, the swelling of his throat when he had it forced down right to the hilt, the desperate, rhythmic breathing he was forced into in time with the movements of the man's cock.

The thin trail of spit, blood, and now precum reached all the way from the corner of the kid's mouth, down his neck, and onto his shirt. 

I wondered how long he would fight it. He was still half-hard himself, and sooner or later he had to know what was coming. Sure enough, at first he tried to writhe and spit and turn his head and close his mouth - I just yanked him around by the gun, breaking teeth if I needed to. But, he needed to breathe, and that breaks just about every man - sure enough, he let himself be coaxed into the same motions I wanted him to make. Let me in. Even swallowed, his toes curling. Accepted fate. 

Not much tougher than his father. Oh well. I picked up the pace; get this over with. Unsurprisingly, the kid started to choke. He kicked, and writhed. Boots scraped the floor. Tears built in the corners of his eyes and a few of them fell when he felt my cock start to twitch and jump in his mouth. I fingered the trigger, wrenching his face around. I was going to look him right in the eyes as I pulled it.

Broken, defeated, dea--

The shot went off and my cum splattered across the kid's lips, but he was still alive, my hand and wrist clutched desperately in his recently-freed, trembling hands. Which he then wrenched as hard as he could, trying to get the gun away.

Son of a bitch. It was an act. That look in his eyes was as hard as ever - he'd planned this from the start, knowing he couldn't pull it off if I fucked him and got to look at his hands the whole time. Sneaky little son of a bitch! 

My arms were still trembling with the aftermath of orgasm, but I was still out of a gassed, beaten, and raped kid's league in a wrestling match. The kid had to know that, but he didn't give up. Tried to turn it on me; I wrenched him around to point at his father instead. "Just... a little... more... that way. Point it ...at ...dad." Squeezing the trigger, repeatedly. Oh, he didn't like that one bit. Almost got free for a second. Can't have that.

I backhanded him across the face so hard his eyes rolled back in his skull and he dropped like a sack of bones, collapsing. 

"Woo! You got fire in you, kid. I like that. Risking your life to protect your Captain." He had, too. Put his life on the line in one of the most horrific fucking ways I could imagine to save his brother and his old man. Not a goddamned thing like Elias, after all. "You could learn something from him, Elias."

But he never would. I was done with him. Time to end this.

I kicked the old man to the ground where he wheezed that he was proud of the kid - no shit, I would be too. Where he got that steel from, it sure as hell wasn't you. Wish I'd met his mother. Hesh was still screaming. Have to test him later, see if he's got the same mettle. Doubt it, though. Know a boy scout when I see one, now.

I put my boot on Elias Walker's head and shot him like the lame old dog he was. After all this time, he barely put up a fight.

I crouched beside his son, though, and kissed the back of his head. I'd keep him around, for now. He'd earned it. "Don't worry, kid. Next time, I'll come inside you."

His eyes rolled back even further; he passed out. Too bad. Round two would have to wait. 

"You... mother... fucker...." The older kid was still shaking with rage, bright eyes wet and red with grief. "I will _kill_ you."

...Or would it?


	2. Hesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the CoD: Ghosts Kink Meme - the events in Vegas, continued.

I hadn't slept in 48 hours. 

Dad would've kicked my ass for that, verbally at least - told me how it would make me slow, make me sloppy, make me make mistakes that could cost me and Logan. He would never have let me check my rifle a dozen times in a couple of hours, dismantling it and cleaning it and putting everything back together again. Or walk the deck so many times I had it memorized. No, he would've dragged me right back to bed - by the collar if he needed to - and given me that ass-kicking until I stayed there.

But you aren't here anymore, dad. Still can't believe it. I guess I've got to drag myself. It's going to take some getting used to.

The bunks in the carrier are uncomfortable, but they beat sleeping on the ground. I used to joke with Logan on cold - for SoCal - nights that at least the Federation had invaded from the south and not, like, Canada. We've even got some privacy. The sailors are working night and day to make sure we're ready; me and Logan, we've got nothing to do but wait. 

Nothing to do but stare at the ceiling in the dark. I wish Riley was here. I know Merrick will take good care of him, but I miss him already...

I must've dozed off a little - I took me a second to realize that the rustling and the black shape at the end of the bed was really there and not my sleep-deprived imagination. "...Logan?" I could only ask blearily. Nothing else made sense.

Huh. He hadn't crawled into my bed since grade school. When he was having nightmares. When dad scared him. ...When mom died...

Shit. 

I shook myself awake as best I could for him: he was staring right at me, legs swung over the side. 

"You okay?" I groped for him. He looked haunted - not that I could blame him. 

"You think it was true?" When I didn't know how to respond, he frowned. "What he said about him, and dad."

"Of _course_ not. That was bullshit." I shook my head vehemently, finding his shoulder at last. "He would've said anything to get a reaction out of us." It was a game. A fucking game. Push all of our buttons until one of us cracked. That sick fucking motherfucker.

"Hesh." Logan breathed quietly and grabbed my hands. They were shaking. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah..." I exhaled unsteadily. "Just... dad. He'll be watching us, you know? We've gotta' make him proud."

I could feel Logan lean against me in the dark; I sank back against the pillows. Maybe the two of us could sleep, together.

* * *

I've seen combat plenty of times. As much as anybody working my section of the wall, maybe more. Dad never coddled us, or kept us out of trouble. Seen civilians gunned down right in front of me, seen my buddies bleed out. Thought I knew how angry I could get, and that I could keep it in check, if I tried. I was proud of that.

But now I couldn't think, I couldn't even _see_ straight. It wasn't just the tears; red ate at the edges of my vision and I'd torn some of the skin off my wrists trying to get free but I could barely feel it. "I will _kill_ you," I spat, and I fucking meant it. I was going to get my hands around his throat and choke the life out of him. I was going gouge his eyes out. I was going to rip him to pieces with my bare hands. This was rage. Hate. I couldn't control it if I wanted to, and I didn't want to.

The sick fucking asshole let my brother go, at least. Got up, and dragged the chair Logan had been sitting on over until it was right in front of mine. He sat there, and watched me.

Just sat there, staring. For minutes. Looked me in the eyes, but not for long. Inspected every part of my body - lingering on my sweat-soaked shirt, and how I was straining against the ropes, in a way that made my skin crawl. I stopped and shifted backwards in the chair without realizing it. "What the fuck do you want from me?" I snarled, at last. "I'm not telling you anything, you piece of shit." 

"Not that, kid." He chuckled, and leaned back in his chair, tapping the pistol against his thigh idly. "You know, I was kinda' hoping your old man would hold out a little longer. I would've liked to try you out. Collect the set."

Was that a fucking _joke_?! Did he think this was fucking _funny_?! More warm liquid dripped down the palms of my hands, but I couldn't get free. I don't know how Logan did it. I should ask, but...

"No, what I was actually thinking was that I'd like to fuck your little brother again. Probably not as fun, now, but I might get lucky and wake him up."

"Keep your goddamned hands off him, you motherfucker!" I tried to tell myself he was saying it to rile me up. But he hadn't even bothered to zip his pants back up and I could he that he was getting hard. ...This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening. This wasn't one of the legendary soldiers my dad had told us about, that me and Logan had grown up idolizing. He hadn't just shot my bound, helpless father in the head and _fucked_ my little brother's mouth. He was _not_ staring at me like that with a hardon.

"Tell you what." He rose, languidly, and leaned over my shoulder until his face was right next to my ear. He pulled out a knife and I braced for it, only to feel it dig into the ropes around my hands instead. "I'll give you a choice. You can take your shot at me - I know you want to. But if you lose, I'll kill you, and fuck your brother. Or, you can suck me off like he did, and I'll leave the two of you alone until the general decides what to do with you."

My hands were suddenly free. The blood rushed back into them; they tingled and stung. I still wanted nothing more than to wring his fucking neck, but...

I was still weak, from the gas. Rorke was not only armed, but he was half again my size. It would be fucking stupid. Oh, I still would have, if it was only my life on the line. If Logan wasn't right there, if I didn't _know_ he would do exactly what he said. "Fuck..." I felt sick to my stomach, but what could I do? Dad would've wanted me to protect you. "...Okay. Shit." I grimaced.

He sat back down, legs spread, watching me. Put his knife away and gestured with his gun. "Well? Get on your knees, then."

I wasn't wearing my gear; the tiles were hard. He wasn't doing a damned thing to help me, either - I had to reach in and pull his cock out, fighting off revulsion. I contemplated ripping it off, but he pressed the muzzle of the pistol to my temple like he knew just what I was thinking. Fuck. "No teeth, either."

His cock was still faintly damp from Logan's mouth, and it tasted like spit and come. It was hard just to get the tip of it into my mouth without gagging; the feel of it was enough to make me gag, anyway. I wasn't sure where to put my tongue. Tried bobbing my head; he laid one of his huge hands on the back of it and coaxed me down until I had to swallow.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I wasn't going to think about what I was doing. I wasn't going to think about _anything_. I'd get him off. Logan would be safe.

Logan... I could still see what Rorke did to him, playing over and over in my mind. Choking him with that pistol, struggling to breathe, tears running down his cheeks and sure I was going to watch him die like that, watch my little brother die like _that_ , until I wanted to _scream_.

I didn't realize I was trembling with anger again until Rorke snapped me out of it, laughing. "Oh, _kid_. I'm going to fuck him anyway."

It didn't take me a millisecond after I heard that to lunge for the gun, but he saw it coming - pulled away and kicked me in the head so hard I landed against the opposite chair. He was even stronger than I'd thought. Any other time, that would've knocked me right out of the fight - the room was spinning sideways, full of black spots - but not now. Not fucking _now_. I might not be in control, but I had the strength to get right back up again. 

It took him off guard too, I could tell - he would've shot me otherwise. I grabbed his wrist with both hands and pried back his fingers - threw myself right at him so he couldn't kick me again. He dropped the weapon, but he grabbed my other arm so I couldn't take it. It clattered to the floor. 

I wasn't going to let him fucking win. I was going to shoot the sick fuck in the face. He was bigger than me? Fine. I slammed my head into his chin, twisted free, and lunged for it. 

The move left my back exposed, but I thought I could just take it. One hit. Then I'd have the gun and he'd be fucking dead. I didn't expect it to feel like a sledgehammer to the kidneys; didn't expect to be so stunned he'd have an opening to kick me in the gut so hard I crumpled to the ground, heaving up bile and fighting just to breathe. 

"That's what I thought." He picked me up by the shoulders and hurled me onto one of the nearby tables. Thought he'd meant to knock it over, but he was on top of me in another second, between my legs, pressing me down with his whole body weight.

Oh no. Oh my fucking god, _no_. He yanked down my pants just enough to shove his cock inside me before he pinned my arms. I wasn't flexible enough to kick him off from this position; I thrashed, struggled, tried to bite him but he moved out of reach. It hurt worse than I thought would - felt like he was sawing me open. Raw, stretched, probably bleeding. Once he was in he started thrusting fast and hard.

"You sick fucking piece of shit I will fucking _kill_ you..." I growled, still out of breath and tasting vomit but fucked if I was going to give up. I was going to get one of my knees up. I was going to get one of my wrists free. I was going to get him off me and _out_ of me and then I was going to _murder_. _Him_.

I fought until my muscles burned, spasmed with exhaustion. Until I was panting, and aching... until I just, couldn't, anymore. My throat was raw. I was losing my voice. And the sickening wave of pain that followed each vicious thrust sapped all the strength I had left. I realized there was nothing I could do but lay there until it was over and I _hated_ myself in that moment.

His movements changed completely when he felt me give up. They slowed, becoming rhythmic, and deliberate. Things went quiet - all I could hear was his breathing. How it hitched with pleasure. He looked like he was loving it, too, eyes roaming all over my body like they did before. I squeezed my own shut. At least I didn't have to watch.

I could still feel, though. Feel his weight on top of me. Feel his hands around my wrists. Feel his skin heat up with lust; feel his pubic hair against my ass, feel his cock slide easier as it got slick with precum, until tiny drops of that leaked out and trickled down my asscrack. I wanted to be sick. 

How long was he going to keep this up? I remembered stories, from the guys, about how if they jerked off before they went home to see their girlfriends, they could last forever. He'd just gotten off with Logan. ...At least it stopped hurting so bad. The pain faded to an uncomfortable tightness in my stomach and thighs. Hadn't even realized I was still tensing those, trying to keep him away, when they gave out on me. He moved in even closer, shoved his cock in even deeper, until I could feel his balls, as he rocked against my hips.

I groaned; I thought for second it was Rorke, but that was my voice. That tightness was turning into heat, and the way he was moving now started to spread it all over my abdomen. ...Which felt wet, and warm. I opened one eye, and swallowed: my own cock was stiff, and dripping a line of precum that Rorke smeared across my abs when he leaned in close for a hard thrust that made my toes curl, made me gasp.

I squirmed in disgust tried to shut my legs; he dragged me down to the edge of the table and tilted my hips up with his weight, so he could thrust into me just like that again. Right in that spot. Again. And again. I shuddered and could taste bile at the back of my throat, but there was white eating at the edge of my vision and I was starting to moan for him, move with him unconsciously.

Without warning, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness ached. "Stand up." He patted the inside of my thigh with a hot, sweat-slicked hand.

I could tell myself that it wouldn't have mattered if I'd obeyed him or not. He could have yanked me to my feet, or just shoved his cock back in and finished up anyway. But the truth is, I didn't even think about it. I stood, legs trembling with the effort, and let him turn me around by the hips and bend me over the table. His wet cock slid in effortlessly, this time. And it felt even better like this. 

My own cock was throbbing - I reached for it, but he grabbed my arms again. I didn't fight him. He fucked me even harder than before and it hurt a little but I didn't even care - I could barely feel it. The head of his cock was striking somewhere inside me that felt so good I couldn't even describe it; I was panting, crying out, as he pounded me. He pulled me right to his chest and fucked me as I came. It felt so good I leaned back against him and shifted my legs apart to let him in all the way. 

Through the haze of ecstasy I could feel him ride me a while longer, pushing me down to the table, to his own orgasm. He groaned; the twitching of his cock still felt good. 

He stayed there on top of me while he caught his breath. While the pleasure faded and the hurt crept back in. How raw, and sore, and stretched I was. How my head still ached and rang and my ribs and gut were already bruising. How Rorke's lukewarm cum was starting to ooze out and run down between my thighs. I hurt too much to fight. Too much to move. I tried to stand again and fell, banging my knees and shins hard on the tiles; he let me. 

He looked... disappointed, somehow. I was already heaving again, trembling. The adrenalin was gone. He tucked himself back in and walked over to pick up his gun. I thought he was going to kill me, then. I wanted him to. He'd still fuck Logan whenever he felt like it. And there was nothing I could do about it. _Nothing_. He and I both knew that, now.

"Say goodbye to your brother, kid." Instead, he picked up the radio, started talking in Spanish - they were done here. And then he left.

I did the only thing I could do. Crawled over to my brother, and cleaned off his face.

* * *

I woke up again with a start, still bracing for that shot. It was pitch black, now. Logan's head was resting against my shoulder. Steady, rhythmic breathing. He was asleep.

A couple of days from now, we'll fight the Federation on their home territory. For the last time, maybe. Free our country. Get revenge for you, dad. Merrick will take good care of Riley.

I don't plan on coming home.


	3. Keegan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everybody!

Sorry, Elias. This isn't the shot. 

I'll know it when I see it - you know that. Knew that. And when I see it, I'll take it. The conditions are right, but the outcomes are all wrong.

Lighting: optimal. I chose this location for that reason. The angle of the sun puts my position in the shadows and my target's position in the light. 

Wind: minimal. Almost no movement of the surface of the sand-choked streets below.

Distance: moderate. Less than three hundred yards; my accuracy for stationary targets at this range is well above ninety percent; for mobile targets, eighty. 

Line of sight: clear. The target and all hostages are in front of windows. Why the interrogation is taking place somewhere this vulnerable and not in one of the inner rooms, I can only guess. Most likely, he knows that:

One of the hostages is not present. (Where the fuck are you, Merrick?)

One is likely KIA, another unconscious, and the other incapacitated.

All possible trajectories for a kill shot would exit directly into the body of said hostage.

Probable outcomes? I kill the target, kill the hostage, the remaining hostiles kill the absent hostage and almost certainly the surviving hostage before I can reach him. 

No, this isn't the shot, as much as Hesh might want me to take it. Trust me, kid - you'll thank me later. There's no payback in the grave. And you'll want some of that: for Elias, and for yourself.

What the hell did they do to you, Rorke?

* * *

Of course, we all changed that day. The day we left all reason, all sanity, all hope behind and let them walk away through an opening bought with the blood of our fallen, led by a single one of our fellow soldiers, vanishing into the desert night. The rest of us stayed to die. 

With the civilians gone and the supplies destroyed in the fighting, there was no purpose in defending the battered shell of a hospital. No protocol demanded it. No orders were relayed. What we wanted had no rational explanation - we wanted to kill them, or die trying.

For me, I lost all substance. No one could see me. No one could hear me. No one could touch me. I realize in retrospect that the sand clinging to the damp blood that soaked through my gear made me indistinguishable from the ground. That on a moonless night their visibility without night vision would have been mere feet while mine was yards and their reliance on conventional lights only made them more nightblind to whatever those couldn't reach. That in the chaos that erupted the moment we rose from beneath those bodies high-calibre rounds sounded much the same as 5.56. Before it was done I'd climbed weightlessly, untouched, to the roof of the building and picked off any who tried to flee the carnage. 

It was Rorke who told me to leave one alive. For posterity.

For Rorke, he believed it had forged some special bond between us. That all of us who'd survived - from the raw recruits like myself and Ajax, to the 30-something veterans with families, like Elias - were blood brothers, now.

...Though he and Elias were blood brothers in another sense, too. A much older sense. In ancient Greece and feudal Japan they believed that strengthened the bond between warriors, as much scorn as is heaped on it now. (I never minded. They were subtle. Honestly, I'd take it over Merrick's snoring.)

What that bond bought him in the modern age, however, seemed to be a half-full bottle of whiskey in the break room on Christmas Eve. We were technically off-duty, but while Elias and Ajax and the rest were home with their families (and Merrick was spending the night with whichever poor woman would tolerate him that week) Rorke and I were still at the base. Most of the lights were out, and we were left with a skeleton crew and rare silence. 

Rorke had his feet up on the table in front of him next to a stack of neglected reports, as he reclined on one of the couches and drank, staring at nothing. Alcohol was good. It eased emotional pain, and lowered inhibitions. I sat at a right angle to him on another, gauging the distance. The mood. The timing.

This requires some context.

Recon is my specialty. I am, almost always, the designated marksman of my unit. I play that role for the Ghosts, too, whenever I'm not needed for a different one. This often leaves me at a distance from the relative safety of my squadmates. That I prefer to work without a spotter only exacerbates it; I am required, at times, to run operations solo, well behind enemy lines. This makes me uniquely vulnerable in a way most other soldiers aren't, to capture and interrogation. If I make a wrong move, I can quickly be outnumbered and overwhelmed. 

I've always been aware of this. I've trained myself to resist, escape, evade, and survive to the best of my abilities - whether that means spending nights outside in sub-freezing temperatures to ensure that I can endure them if I have to, going without food or water or sleep or even moving for hours at a time, I've practiced it. Experienced it. I know what it feels like and it won't take me by surprise or weaken my resolve or dull my senses.

Which is to say that when I was providing overwatch for the other Ghosts during an incursion into Federation territory, before the war started, to gather intelligence on their early weapons capabilities, almost a mile away, only to be spotted by patrol of twenty enemy combatants, I surrendered rather than wind up in an early grave. That would buy more time for the rest of the squad than would a brief firefight, and I would slip out the second I got the chance. There was nowhere to hold me but the back of their own BTR.

I'd done it before. When one of them climbed into the back with me to punch me a few times and kick me to the floor I thought absolutely nothing of it. It was all very standard. This was supposed to make me feel helpless. Put me in my place. Teach me to play along; what would happen if I didn't. I'd kill him on the way out if I got the chance, otherwise, no hard feelings - this was the script. 

That was until he followed me to the floor, out of sight to the rest of his comrades, and put a knife to my throat. I was not a valuable prisoner. Be quiet, or he'd kill me. This was off script. Way off script. When he unbuckled my belt and reached past the spare mags they hadn't bothered to strip off me and into my pants... I froze. 

It had been _years_ since I'd frozen on an operation. Since before Sand Viper, since before the other war, since I saw my first combat and looked down my scope only to realize I was looking right at another sniper, who was looking at me. I didn't know what to do. Luck saved me that day; he missed, I didn't. 

My captain saved me this time. Knowing where I was - putting me in an armoured vehicle was a mistake - he planted charges on the road, popped some smoke, and took up a position above them with an LMG to fire indiscriminately at the rest until they all stopped moving. My captor still had that knife to my throat when Rorke switched to his rifle and took him out through the window. 

"...You alright, Keegan?" He rapped on the back door before opening it, which was odd. Stranger still for him to have come alone. 

"Fine." I did my belt back up numbly and climbed out after him. "Where's Merrick?" And Kick, and Ajax, for that matter.

Rorke's back was already turned, picking through the corpses for useful intel. "Finishing the op. Don't need the whole gang to bail your ass out." All I could think about was finding my rifle. "I'm sure they can handle it. You and I are done for today, my friend."

Later, Merrick chalked it all up to Rorke's usual dedication to getting shit done. The captain's legend only grew in the eyes of the rest. But Merrick, Merrick doesn't do details. Details are what I do best.

Rorke came alone because if Merrick and the others had seen me like that I'd have wanted to be drinking cyanide right now, not whiskey. Rorke, he could pretend nothing happened. Just like he could pretend he wasn't drowning his own loneliness in a bottle, pretend his five minute, professional phone call to wish Elias happy holidays was enough.

But I couldn't pretend that mistake hadn't nearly cost me everything. Worse, I didn't know what to do - I'd been completely unprepared. I couldn't practice this. I didn't even know where to begin. Hire a professional? Against the law, and it wouldn't be the same. I wouldn't feel threatened. They wouldn't know how it was, out there. (Not to mention the damage to my career if it ever got out.)

So I took a pull of whiskey as offered, and watched my captain. This had to be done just right. Details: we were alone, I'd locked the door, and Rorke was about as mentally - and emotionally - vulnerable as I was ever likely to get him.

First: shift closer, onto his couch, to get more alcohol. A few points of contact, an exchange of body heat. Second: pick up one of those reports, hand on his knee to keep from swaying.

He sighed. Swirled the liquid. Looked me in the eye.

"No." 

"No?" I asked innocuously, over the pages.

" _How_ long have you been under my command?" Wry, amused, regretful - it was difficult to tell. "Don't you think I damn well know you by now? No."

"Alright?" I said, and went back to reading. Held my position. 

Rorke drank for a while, in silence. "Besides, it wouldn't be the same. Wouldn't even be close to the damned same," he added. His skin grew warmer to the touch; his breathing quickened.

I leaned closer, hand on his hip this time, and moved in for the kill.

A tactical error, maybe: he grabbed my arm and twisted it backwards - Rorke was fast when he wanted to be, even drunk, and I didn't see it coming. Still, I was faster, and flexible enough to move with it, turn my torso so he couldn't put pressure on the joint. Get my legs up to keep him from pinning me, which is exactly what he tried to do next.

"It'll hurt," he grunted, trying to get a grip on one of my other limbs. I wasn't going to let him. "Hurt worse than you know."

This was the last position I wanted to be in with Gabriel Rorke. It wasn't that I couldn't grapple with men larger than me, and win. Basic CQC is all part of the training we live and breathe, and most large men gain their size through bulking. It's vanity muscle; it looks good, but they have no endurance, and it's not useful for much beyond lifting exactly the same weight in exactly the same way for exactly the same number of repetitions. Our captain, though - every ounce he weighed was functional strength, hard-earned through training. Through combat. Through exactly what we were doing now. 

"It'll be humiliating." He gave up on that and used his body weight to force me down the couch. On my back I could still hurt him, get my elbow up under his throat, kick his legs, knee his abdomen. On my stomach I would be completely helpless; I braced myself against the side to keep him from rolling me over. "You'll hate yourself for letting it happen, even though there's nothing you could have done about it."

Only one side to do that with, though - he knew it, and he kicked the ankle I was using to brace myself against the floor away just long enough to get me on my side; one arm trapped under me, the other pinned, his legs around my hips. I had no leverage; I was trapped; he knew it. He leaned in close to whisper: "And it'll haunt you until the day you die."

I kissed him. 

He tasted like whiskey, but then, so did I, I'm sure. I tugged at his lower lip lightly until his mouth opened, licked his upper lip, and then his tongue. Coaxed it into my mouth and sucked it, gently. He turned, grabbed the back of my head, and pressed his lips back against mine. 

And let me go, pulling away abruptly. Shaking his head. Turning back to the papers we'd scattered everywhere and the bottle we'd spilled. 

I sat up and caught him by the waist. "Wait," I said, right next to his ear, and kissed his neck. 

The parameters of my objective had to be adjusted; I was rock hard, and I wanted to fuck him. From the stiffening bulge that pressed against my midsection when he felt mine, I doubted he'd object. 

He kissed me back, hard this time, and my lips tingled when the blood rushed back into them as I stripped off his shirt, and he stripped off mine. He was wearing his tags; cool metal against hot, slick skin. The pants would be trickier - I leaned him back against the armrest and pressed hard kisses back on his chest, and abdomen, as I peeled them off. I'd never fucked a man before, but the basics weren't hard to grasp; when I sucked the tip of his stiffening erection he groaned, breathing hard.

I was prepared for this. I took the tube of lubricant out of my pocket before I kicked off my own pants, still sucking him, and slicked my fingers. This was the part I didn't know. ...No better way to find out.

He coaxed my head back up with a light tug as soon as he felt it and chuckled, breathless. "I don't need that. Just fuck me."

It went against most of what I'd been told, but he was my captain, and I'm sure he knew what he wanted. I wiped the rest off on my cock, stroking it a few times, then began to push the tip into that hole.

Hot. Tight. _Suffocatingly_ tight. I bit my lip to keep from gasping; he wrapped his legs around my hips and pushed me back until he was in my lap, and started moving. Squeezing my cock with those muscles. Whatever he was getting out of it, I didn't know, but I could feel him throb against my stomach when I moved with him. Thrust up into him. Into that wet, maddening heat. 

Sweat and precum built up between us as we moved, until we were damp with it, until I could feel it drip down my hips and thighs. His hard nipples scraped against my chest along with his tags. I kissed the hollow of his throat and grabbed his cock to squeeze it; I was going to come, and I wanted to take him with me. 

A few pumps of my wrist and his whole body went even tighter; his thighs locked around me and shook; both sensations ran through my cock, and I couldn't hold back - "Fuck," I came with a hiss and he came with a growl.

We both collapsed back against the couch, panting. Whiskey did not do wonders for stamina. Best not to think about what I just did to my captain, or how he was going to react to it. What this would mean for the team. 

...For his part Rorke said nothing, for a good long time. Until I wondered if he'd fallen asleep. If I shouldn't do that myself. I was on the verge of it when he finally broke the silence.

"Not bad, kid. Let me show you how it's done."

Another chuckle in the darkness and suddenly I was on my back again. He didn't touch my cock, or suck me off; he laid on top of me and dug his knuckles into my abdomen, massaging it. Felt warm; my muscles clenched reflexively. I felt the blood start draining back into my cock, but this was slow, and gradual.

After a while, he fished the lube up off the floor, and coated his fingers with it. I winced, but he pushed in slowly, rocking his hand until my muscles relaxed. He pressed up with it right where his knuckles pressed down; my breath caught it felt so good. He didn't hold it there, or rub it, he pushed his fingers... when did there get to be more than one?... in and out, brushing it, moving my hips with the same motion until my cock was dripping, and my stomach felt so hot and the muscles so tight I could writhe.

He pulled his hand out and replaced it with his gel-slicked cock in one motion and started fucking me in the same rhythm my hips were moving with unconsciously now, pressed deep into the cushions under his weight. It was thicker and hotter and it _throbbed_ ; I was gasping for him, moaning for him, and he picked up the pace to match, fucking me hard. His tags dragged along my neck, clinking metallically while the wet sounds of his thrusts and the creak of the couch got louder. 

I was shaking with the need to come; he grabbed my thighs and pushed them up and apart so he could shove his cock in right to the hilt, hammering that spot over and over until it was all I could feel, until my cock twitched and poured come all over my stomach and chest.

My ears were still ringing and my vision was still clouded when Rorke came inside me. Felt distant; surreal. Vaguely good. Something dangerously affectionate about the way he squeezed my hip as he pulled out. He left me, though, before I could say anything about it. Got dressed and walked away while I was still dazed, leaving me with the mess.

Well, he was an officer. It was my mess if he said it was. (Still beats some of the messes Merrick's left for me.)

I tried to get him alone again, after that, see if he would be willing to try that again, even just talk about it, but he avoided me. Not on operations, not when we were all together or Elias was around, but every other time he refused to be cornered.

Who knows, maybe he would have come around. It wasn't long after that that we lost him. I wasn't there - all loud, combat heavy, exposed, not my specialty - but I heard about it from Elias. Ajax. Merrick. Three very different stories, but that's only to be expected. As far as they were concerned, he was dead, because if he wasn't it didn't bear thinking about. The Ghosts under Elias were a different creature, though nobody said it out loud. Rorke had created us; of course it was. Elias was older, and soon retired from the field, spending less time on ops and planning and more on raising his sons. Elias was never going to take out a convoy by himself with a few smoke grenades and an LMG to save my ass, or crawl underwater half way across a flooded city while we were completely surrounded to save Merrick's.

If he was, maybe I would never have needed to be prepared. Though that, too, didn't bear thinking about. As it was...

...As it was it was only a few years later, this time in the freezer of a long ruined fast food joint in No Man's Land. Not a bad call, tactically speaking. It was solid. Steel. No windows, or vents. The mechanism to open it from the inside could easily be broken. Friendly scouting patrols wouldn't hear me even if I shouted and they wouldn't pick up a heat signature. 

It was pitch black inside, but there were wooden slats to pack boxes on, old rat-chewed cardboard, packing plastic. Whatever didn't rot and scavengers didn't eat. Good call to bind my wrists with a plastic strip, too. Rope is made of fibres - it stretches. Cuffs can be picked, and with a narrow point of contact that doesn't tighten, can be worked out of if you're willing to lose some skin. 

I thought dumping me in here alone until they could move me in the morning was so that I couldn't overhear them, wouldn't have any intel if I escaped. That was part of it, probably. But it was also for privacy; first, two of them, one watching and chuckling and tossing off casual insults while the other pressed me face-down on the cardboard and shoved his cock inside me. 

It hurt. It was humiliating. His come had barely begun to ooze out when the other kicked my legs apart and fucked me. I couldn't pull my pants back up; I was like that when the next on came in.

But I kept my head, this time. Listened to their voices, what they were saying to be let out. To where they set their rifles against the wall. Felt my way across the floor until I found a packing staple with a sharp enough edge to cut.

I was already free by the time the third one came in. But he hadn't brought his rifle with him, just his sidearm. With a single magazine I'd have to make every shot a kill shot. Those were bad odds. 

Before, I'm sure I would have taken them. I'd be panicked. I'd have taken any chance to get out before they could do it again. I would probably be dead now. I wouldn't have let him climb on top of me, call me a whore, and ride me for agonizing minutes while I could have reached out and snapped his neck at any time. Gouged out his eyes. I held back when two of them came in next. Bad odds. One of them would be ready with a weapon. I had to hold my unbound wrists together while he pushed me over a crate so the the other one could fuck my mouth at the same time. My chin and thighs were dripping come by the time they were done with me.

It paid off. The next one had a carbine perfect for these tight quarters, with a thermal sight. Two spare magazines. He set it against the wall, far out of reach. His mistake. I grabbed the knife out of his vest sheath and rammed it through his eye into his brain. I rolled his corpse off, cleared my throat, and laughed. Told them I was finished, muffling my voice.

The rest of them never knew what hit them. I had no substance. Nobody could touch me.

* * *

I never thought I'd see this, not from Rorke. It wouldn't be lust, from him, or blind anger. He'd know exactly what he was doing. The mark he was leaving on Elias Walker's son. That was how deep his resentment ran, for us. If what he'd done to Ajax wasn't enough to show it, this did.

Sorry, kid. This isn't the shot. 

It's not my shot to take, anymore.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Might Have Been](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130226) by [houston180](https://archiveofourown.org/users/houston180/pseuds/houston180)




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